Stay
by Ditsypersephone
Summary: Sherlock broke up with Molly, thinking that this would be the kinder thing to do. But was he protecting her heart or his? Can there be a happy end when you're too afraid to risk it all? - sequel to "Around and Around We Go"
1. Not really sure how to feel about it

_This is the second part to my other story "Around and Around We Go", which picks up several months after the first one ended._

 _I do not own any of the BBC characters_

* * *

 **Stay**

 _Not really sure how to feel about it_

Mycroft Holmes never texts if he can call.

Sherlock ignores the vibrating phone in his pocket and continues to stare into the microscope. The vibrating stops and starts again a few seconds later. With an annoyed sigh, he takes it out and answers.

"Yes?"

"Sunday matinee. A car will come pick you up at quarter to twelve, lunch at The Ivy, buy flowers for Mummy," his brother's voice comes through the speaker. "And Sherlock? I hope no important cases come up."

The call ends and he has the childish urge to stick his tongue out at it. Even as adults, Mycroft has the ability to make him feel like a stupid five-year old. He doubts that will ever change.

"I'm going home."

Sherlock turns to see Molly standing by the lab door, jacket on and bag over her shoulder. It's already an hour past her shift, she's stayed on longer to get through a backlog of admin work.

He nods in acknowledgement. She hovers, hesitates, looking like she's about to say something else, but then waves at him and leaves.

His phone beeps, and he glances back at it. A text message from John.

 _ **Dinner. Tonight. 7 pm.**_

He rolls his eyes. He's tired of being treated like a child unable to remember his own schedule. He's tempted to write back with an excuse, that he can't make it - except he really has no other plans. And dinner with the Watsons is marginally more interesting than trying to find an experiment to occupy his mind. He's been so bored lately.

He does text Lestrade in the cab over to John and Mary's place, in hopes something juicy has come up. But whether there is nothing or he's simply being ignored, he can't tell. Maybe both.

They're stopped at a light and he watches the people on the pavement. There's a group of women, early twenties, dressed up for going out, laughing and looking like they've already had a few drinks.

Molly had laughed today. She'd been talking to one of the new interns, trading stories about a professor they had in common. It seemed so long since he'd heard her laugh. After months of avoidance and silence, they were finally back at being somewhat friendly with each other, exchanging more than mere civilities. It feels wrong to be back at square one, after all they have been through. But he couldn't blame her for that. This was his own doing.

He wants to believe that it was for the best, in the long run.

:::

Mary opens the door, a laughing child in her arms.

"Lolock!" little Emma screeches happily and launches herself into his arms.

He bounces her up a bit - with her demanding "Higher!" - her unadulterated joy rather infectious. It's strange to think that he is a godfather. That he's found such pleasure in seeing a small child grow and learn and become their own little person.

Mary greets him with a fond peck on his cheek. "Come in, John's in the kitchen."

The Watson's home is bright and friendly. Chic – thanks to Mary's taste – but cosy – again, Mary has a wonderful touch. A good place to raise children, to grow old together. He predicts that in a few years there'll be a cat or a dog joining the family. Mary's a cat person, but he knows John always wanted a dog. Maybe they'll get both. The Watsons have become good at compromise.

"Wine?" John asks him, when they arrive at the kitchen.

His friend is busy with the potatoes, seasoning them before putting them in the oven. He takes the already opened bottle of a nice vintage - Mary really has good taste– and pours himself a glass. He usually stays away from alcohol, but this is what people do, isn't it? Go to their friends' house on a Friday, have dinner, drink wine, talk about everything and the world?

"I'll get the little one settled," Mary announces, telling her daughter to say goodnight to her favourite person other than her parents. She pouts and protests for a bit but then eagerly makes it upstairs when Sherlock offers to read her a bedtime story.

They're seated at the dinner table, enjoying their food. John's become a better cook since he'd gotten married – "I've always been a good cook, you git! But with Mrs. H around, it's a hard competition."

Again, the strangeness of it all strikes him. Five years ago, even three years ago, he'd never thought he'd do something normal like this. Friends. Talking to them. He avoids looking at the empty seat next to him. He thinks the Watsons – or Mary at least – notice. It makes him feel uncomfortable. It makes him feel lonely. He hopes she won't be able to see that.

It's not bad, having friends. He doesn't think so. It's pleasant. Comforting. It's also annoying sometimes, of course. But having people care for him, it's nice. He likes to pretend that he grew up in a difficult home, that caring had brought him nothing. But he knows he's lying when does that. His parents have always loved him, supported him, even through his worst times. His brother, despite his pompous and high-handed ways, has always looked out for him.

It's not the being cared for that has always scared him. It's caring back. As long as you don't show them that you need them, they can't hurt you. There's only a handful of people he's trusted enough to show them his heart.

And the one who mattered the most to him, he pushed away.

:::

Mary gives him that searching, concerned look of hers.

"Are you okay?"

He smiles, tries to make it look gormless, hoping to make her think it's the wine. There's no fooling Mary Watson, though.

"One day, you're going to figure it out, you know," she says, giving him a hug.

"I think it's too late for that," he whispers, kissing her on the crown.

She smiles up at him, "I think you're wrong."

He scowls at her, but she's unimpressed with his tactics. However, she lets it go. Lets him get into the cab with a "Thanks for coming, be safe."

He asked her once if what she has now – a husband, a kid, domesticity in the suburbs – was enough for her, after everything she'd been through. It took her a moment to answer.

"I don't see it as a matter of it being enough…to me that sounds like I've had to sacrifice something. And it doesn't feel that way. John and Emma, they are who I want. They are so much more than I thought I'd ever get or deserve."

:::

Molly has this laugh – a wonderful sound of "We just had nice sex and I am happy and now I want to be here with you".

He used to think that laugh was exclusively his. He knows it's naïve for him to think that. He hadn't been her first, and with the way things are now, he won't be her last.

He thinks about this laugh on his way home to Baker Street.

:::

The flat's quiet and dark.

Mrs. Hudson had gone to bed hours before, mostly likely lulled by her herbal soothers. It sometimes occurs to him to worry about her and those soothers, but then, who was he to judge? And even though she does play up her hip when it suits her, he knows that she's not really faking her condition. He's seen the crime scene photos, heard her tell the story how her husband used her.

The nice dinner and wine has made him sleepy, but he feels his brain is too active at the moment for him to just go to bed and doze off. He lies down on the couch, intent on sorting some data in his mind palace, to help him wind down.

There was a time when he would go over to Molly's place, when he felt a bit over-stimulated but didn't want to be on his own. Her presence had always soothed him.

He hadn't been to her flat since the break-up.

:::

" _Are you happy?"_

" _Are you?"_

" _I asked you first."_

" _I can think of a thing or two to make me feel happier."_

 _She laughs._

:::

The sun is shining through the window when he wakes up with a start.

At some point he'd drifted off on the couch, still in his suit. The buzzing of his phone had woken him. It took him a couple of seconds to locate it, still feeling disorientated from being ripped away from a deep sleep.

He frowns at the display. Anthea never calls when she can text.


	2. Something in the way you move

_Something in the way you move_

No one looks dignified in a hospital gown. Not even the British government.

Sherlock can't remember ever seeing Mycroft sick, much less in a hospital bed. That has always been his role and there have been many hospitalisations over the years.

Mycroft Holmes looks pale, the purple under eyes bruise-like in contrast to the rest of his face. Sherlock has always teased him about his receding hairline, but now he notices how sparse his hair has become. His brother suddenly looks so much older and Sherlock doesn't know how he feels about that.

He's surprised that Anthea had called him, told her that when he'd arrived at the hospital.

"You're his brother," she told him simply.

Anthea revealed that Mycroft had an episode a few years ago, when Sherlock had been away pretending to be dead. He'd made an excellent recovery by the time Sherlock had come back to London.

"You see but you don't observe." Foolish, foolish.

There is a part of him that wants to leave. He's even considered not coming to see his brother at all. Logically, he knows there is nothing he can do here, is not even sure if his presence would be welcome when Mycroft wakes up. His brother is ten times worse when it comes to showing vulnerability in front of other people. He's surprised that they're not in some secret facility, instead of a normal hospital.

Besides, their parents are on their way. Mummy will probably be frantic, Father busy trying to soothe her. Father has always been the most emotionally stable in the family - Sherlock has always been a little bit in awe of that.

However, he sits and watches and waits as his older brother sleeps. Listens to the beeping and hissing of machines, times the slow breaths as Mycroft's chests rises and falls. Unlike Sherlock, who's always been a fidgeter, Mycroft always had a natural stillness to him. But this felt wrong, artificial, induced. This was not his brother.

He wonders if Mycroft has ever felt this way about him when the roles had been reversed.

:::

His mother is noisy, dramatic, like she's always been. She frets, then berates her comatose son. He catches his father's eye and they both chuckle. It feels good.

Of course she needs to know everything – data, the Holmes' boys have been ingrained with the importance of data. She interviews the doctors and nurses meticulously. He knows that she knows that there's nothing she can do even with all the information she has. But he also knows that it will make her feel calmer.

"It's usually you," she says, holding her older son's hand.

Sherlock knows what she means. He suddenly feels uncomfortable, so excuses himself, under the pretense of getting them something to drink. He would have made for the exit, if not for his father following him into the hallway.

"How are you doing?"

He shrugs, looks at his parent, wonders if he should be asking the same. He's not good at these things. He tries.

"You?"

"It's never easy seeing your child ill."

His mother's earlier statement echoes in his head.

They bring back tea – proper tea – and some biscuits. His mother tells him to go home and have a shower. He doesn't protest. There really isn't anything for him to do here.

:::

He asks the cabbie to drop him off by a newsagent, just around the corner of his flat. He needs cigarettes. He's been slipping in the last few months but he truly thinks he deserves one today. Just one.

He's halfway through smoking it when he arrives at his front door. It opens and Mrs. Hudson steps out. There's a resigned tut from her.

"Oh Sherlock, you've been so good."

He takes a last, long drag, then drops it on the ground, crushes it with his shoe. She tuts again, rolls her eyes and tells him she's off to the shops. He remembers he needs milk – he never seems to be able to keep milk at his flat – but does not tempt fate by asking her to bring him a carton. He can always sneak into her flat later, if he's desperate.

He takes a bath. He likes the efficiency of a shower, but baths are for thinking. And he needs to think right now. He's always resorted to thinking when having to deal with emotional things. Well, not always. There had been a time when drugs were the answer. He can still hear their siren call from time to time, that bubbling under the skin. It would be so easy.

That day, when he'd watched Molly storm out of his flat, he'd sat in the bath for two hours. He'd risen out of it afterwards, fingers and toes pruned and soft, gotten dressed and taken the first case he'd found in his inbox.

Afterwards, he'd found himself standing outside her building. The light in her bedroom had been on. He could see in his mind's eye picking the lock to the front door, going up the stairs and then picking her flat's door. She'd be curled up in her duvet, Toby spread out next to her.

He'd imagined her crying, her eyes swollen, her nose red. He's ashamed of how much pleasure that thought gave him. He imagined her hating him – she must hate him now, surely?

He'd jammed his hands into his coat pockets and walked away.

:::

"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

Mycroft's words are true. He just never noticed that his brother had said "all". How foolish to think they were immune to it, exempt from it.

They would never have the kind of relationship most people had with their siblings. But then again, in his work, he's seen all kinds of sibling dynamics. His own best friend, John Watson, who put up with his behavior, is not on speaking terms with his own sister, his flesh and blood.

Their age gap certainly played a part in it. Their genius level IQs, too smart for their own good. He'd been a rambunctious child, wild and eager to explore it all. Mycroft had been the wiser, cool-headed teenager. Sherlock had hero-worshipped him, at the same time resenting the authority Mycroft had as the older brother.

And then Redbeard had happened. He remembers the day they had to put him down, remembers crying inconsolably. He'd been a loud, angry mess and Mycroft had taken him by the shoulders, given him a firm shake and looked at him sternly.

"Enough. Crying won't bring your dog back. Crying never does anything. You better learn this lesson now."

Those words have tainted his feelings ever since. Emotions do not solve problems. They are the problem.

How would he have felt if instead of Anthea calling to inform him that his brother had been found unconscious in his bathroom and was in hospital, the news had been that he had passed away?

He doesn't think he has the tools to cope with that. He's having a difficult time as it is now.

:::

Nothing has changed when he gets back to the hospital. His mother is solving word puzzles, his father reading a book.

He thought about not coming back. They wouldn't be surprised if he didn't. He really does not see how his presence would help Mycroft's recovery. He's being objective about this, something his brother would appreciate. But he's here and he sits with his family. They rarely do this. It helps that one of them is in a coma.

"How are Mary and John and the baby?" his mother asks.

"They're fine." He wonders if John would be angry if he found out that he hadn't told him about Mycroft.

"And Molly?"

"She's…fine."

He'd never told his parents that they'd broken up. Somehow his mother had just known. His father had given him a sympathetic pat on the back. For some reason that felt worse than any recriminations.

"I miss her," his mother says, guilelessly.

He misses her, too.

:::

He's off helping Lestrade with a case – it's a welcome diversion – when Mycroft regains consciousness.

He's examining the body when his phone rings. As is his custom, he ignores it while he's making his initial assessment. It keeps ringing.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, just answer the bloody phone," Lestrade cusses.

He straightens, carefully puts his magnifying glass back into his pocket and then picks up his mobile. It's his mother.

"Come see your brother."

It's different now that his brother's awake. He can't help it, he feels a certain embarrassment for worrying about Mycroft's well-being. This is not what they do. Plus there are some trace materials at the crime scene he wants to process at the lab. He also wants to see what Molly will find on the body – he knows she's on duty.

He wants to see Molly.

:::

There's an absent, almost blank, look on Mycroft's face. It scares him more than the news of his brother's illness. Mycroft had always been the sharper, smarter one. To see him like this is jarring to Sherlock.

The doctors are confident that he'll make a full recovery. They keep saying how lucky he'd been that he'd been found so quickly and rushed to get medical attention. Luck – what a word.

When Mycroft speaks it's slow and slurred and Sherlock can't stand it, so he leaves. His father doesn't follow him this time.

:::

 _"You should have gone to a doctor – John's a doctor!"_

 _"You're a doctor."_

 _"You're bleeding all over my floor!"_

 _"I didn't want John, I wanted you."_

 _"Oh, Sherlock."_

 _She patches him up and later she cuddles him in bed._

:::

"Sherlock."

She's dressed like she's about to go out. Not dressed up enough for drinks or a date, so shopping probably.

"Can I come in?"

There's a pause, he can see her thinking, thinking about saying no, but then she looks at him. Really looks at him, like she used to do, like she hasn't in such a long time.

"What's wrong?"

"Can I come in, please?"

Another pause, another debate in her head. Self-preservation, it's an instinct, and he's given her so many reasons to listen to that instinct.

And then, because she is Molly Hooper, she widens the door, steps aside and lets him in.


	3. Makes me feel like I can't live without

_Makes me feel like I can't live without you_

There's a new couch. In the time between their break-up and now she's bought a new couch. She gestures for him to take a seat.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Water?" he says, his mind still focused on her new piece of furniture.

She'd always talked about getting a new couch. How often had they sat on her old one, dishes and leftover takeaway on the coffee table, the television on, and her browsing the internet, bookmarking models she liked? They'd made love on the old couch, several times. He wonders if she's ever had sex on this new one.

"Here you go," she says, handing him a glass of water.

He finally sits down.

"So…" she prompts, sitting down next to him. They hadn't been this close in months.

"Mycroft's in hospital," he says then takes a sip of the water.

Her eyes go round, even more concerned, "Oh my god, what happened?"

He tells her. She asks questions, he answers. He's suddenly overcome with the urge to cry.

"And how are you feeling?" she asks and he's really afraid that he might cry.

"We all die in the end," he replies. This is what he does when emotions overcome him, he resorts to this clinical, sterile place - objectivity over feelings.

She knows what he's doing, he can tell by the slight downturn of her mouth.

"Why are you here?"

There's a resigned tone to it, a "Why did I expect anything else?" quality. As selfish as he is, he does believe that Molly deserves better. But letting go, there is theory and there is practice. And the worst thing was, even when he'd released her, he'd secretly always hoped that she would come back.

"I just wanted to see you."

He leaves her flat, feeling like he's stolen something from her.

:::

"You're back."

Mycroft's speech has improved, although there is still a deliberateness to it, as if he has to concentrate really hard on the words.

"So are you," Sherlock shoots back.

His brother smirks. Sherlock's childhood is in that smirk, his junkie years, when he told Mycroft that Moriarty needs to be stopped, when he told him that he wasn't sorry for killing Magnussen.

"Anthea called you."

"Yes."

"And you came."

"You're my brother."

"Archenemy has a much nicer ring to it." Trust his brother to use big words even when he's having difficulty with his speech.

"I've been toying with 'nemesis' lately."

"Ah, yes."

"The doctor's say that you might not have made it, if your butler hadn't found you."

"Gibson has always been most attentive."

They sit in silence. Sherlock fidgets, Mycroft tries to brush off some imaginary fleck off his pyjamas. His hands are not as steady as they used to be.

"Alone does not protect us."

"It never has, Sherlock."

"I've lived most of my life believing in that."

A heavy sigh from his brother. "But you were never alone."

"…yes, I can see that now."

:::

John is angry when he finds out about Mycroft. Not furious, punch-you-in-the-face angry, but very upset.

"You could have told us, you know. You're family."

"Would you've told us if he'd died?" he adds.

Mary shoots her husband a reproachful look, but John has known him long enough that it's a valid question. He really is not good at this.

"I promise to tell you next time," Sherlock says, and he feels every inch the little shit that John thinks he is. He may often be oblivious to the finer nuances of human interaction, but he's not entirely un-self aware.

:::

He's always felt at home in the lab of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. It's a place of stimulation, of being productive, of expanding his mind. There's a perfect replica of it in his mind palace, housing all the medical information.

"How's Mycroft?" Molly asks. She's just started her shift, he's been here an hour before.

"Recovering," he answers, looking at her.

"That's good to hear." She smiles and then goes to do her work.

A few hours later, he notices that it's usually the time when Molly takes a break, if she can, to have a quick meal.

"Lunch?" he asks and she literally jumps at his questions.

There's that wary, what-do-you-want-from-me-now expression on her face. She used to have that all the time in the beginning of their acquaintance. But he'd been ruthless and taken advantage anyway. Honestly thought by flirting with her, it somehow made it okay.

"Uhm…"

"We could go get soup, from that place-"

"You're eating today?" It lacks the teasing note it used to have.

"If you're busy, never mind…"

Molly's eyes, they have a way of making him regret not being a better person.

"No, I could do with some soup."

It feels like hope.

:::

Last night, after his visit with Mycroft, he'd sat in the bath again. And smoked. It'd been more than a three-patch problem.

Emotions are messy. They are unpredictable. They can be painful. But they are unavoidable. And he's tried, oh how he's tried, to avoid them. He's used that big, intelligent brain of his to teach himself how not to give in to baser feelings. It's all chemicals, really, swirling in one's body. Just science.

And yet, the exasperation and affection he feels for his mother's love of musicals doesn't feel like mere chemicals. Or the way he feels safe when his father reaches out and pats him on the back. The rush of pride he gets when John grins at him after he's made a deduction. The satisfaction he gets when he's solved another case. The warm fondness he feels when Mrs. Hudson scolds him about housework. The joy he feels when his goddaughter hugs him. The feeling of acceptance he gets from Mary. The trust he has in his older brother.

The way he feels so content just sitting in a room with Molly. He hasn't felt that kind of contentment since he'd let her go.

She'd called him a coward that day. It was time to make a liar of her.

:::

"How are you parents? Your mother must have been beside herself when she found out."

They're sitting at a table, tucked in the corner, with two bowls of soup between them.

"She had tickets to see Matilda. But that's postponed now." The joke falls flat, but he's always been bad at them.

Of course the silence is awkward. He feels awkward, unsure what he's trying to accomplish here. Well, that's not true. He knows what he wants, but he has no clue how to go about it.

"She misses you. Both my parents do," he says. People say these things to other people, right? Social niceties. It helps that it's factual.

She gives him a wistful little smile, "I miss them, too. You really do have lovely parents, you know."

He nods. He knows.

"John and Mary are having a dinner on Friday. If you're-"

"Mary's called me about that. I can't. I have a thing."

"I see. Yes of course." Why wouldn't she have a thing.

"I mean I'd love to come. Emma's so big now, isn't she?"

"She is, yes."

They eat their soup and go back to the lab. He feigns getting a call, tells her he needs to see a client. He can't tell whether she believes him or not.

:::

He's following up on a lead in the West End when he spots her. She's holding a child, making faces at it, making it giggle. She looks so happy and carefree that he feels a physical hurt in his chest.

And then she spots him. Calls his name.

"Good afternoon," he says, sounding too formal even to his own ears.

"Hey. What are you doing here?"

The child in her arm turns shy at seeing the stranger, buries his face in Molly's neck.

"Case."

"Of course."

He points at the child, "Your nephew." Brilliant deduction, Sherlock Holmes.

"Yes. This is David. Say hello, David." The child has wrapped his chubby arms around Molly's neck and refuses to look at Sherlock.

"So your sister's visiting." His over-imaginative brain had conjured all sorts of reasons for why she wasn't at the Watsons' dinner last night. He really needs to get a grip on that.

"And mum." She points at the shop behind them, "David was being a bit grizzly so I thought I'd entertain him out here."

"He looks like your sister."

He's only met her sister and her mother once. They'd gone out for dinner. He'd made an effort to be polite, so he'd kept his mouth shut for most of the evening.

She kisses her nephew on the cheek. "He's a beautiful boy."

"He has your nose."

She laughs self-deprecatingly, "Poor dear."

"I like your nose."

She blushes and he feels a warmth spread in his chest. A movement from the corner of his eye makes him look through the shop window. He sees her family heading for the door. He has a panicked moment where he wants to run but he doesn't.

"I have a present for you, dear," her mother announces cheerfully when they step through the door. Then she stops, looks at Sherlock. "Hello," she says to him, sounding surprised. Is there a hint of hostility in there too?

"Mrs. Hooper," he acknowledges her.

Molly's sister comes up behind their mother, "Sherlock. It's been a while."

"It has. Your son is…nice."

A bemused smile hovers around her mouth, "Thank you. You look…well."

"Yes. I'm on a case. Got to go. Catch you laters."

He can feel the three pairs of eyes burning into his back as he hastily walks away. He wants to smack himself in the head.

:::

 _"Stay."_

 _"I can't."_

 _"Yes you can."_

 _"I have plans."_

 _"Cancel them."_

 _"I don't want to."_

 _"Stay. Please?"_

 _"…okay."_

 _He makes love to her and hopes that it's enough._

:::

The Holmes brothers do not have heartfelt conversations. Their style is quips and barbs over children's board games. They both tacitly agree to blame Mycroft being on medication and Sherlock sampling his brother's excellent scotch for this exchange.

"You're thinking of Molly Hooper."

"Hm."

"And?"

"I don't know."

"Conventional wisdom suggests communication."

"Grand romantic gestures?"

"No. Simple, straightforward communication."

"I thought you'd think that boring. Games are more your forte."

"Certain things aren't games."

"Aren't they?"

"So?"

"So what?"

"Molly Hooper."

"You once warned me away from goldfish."

"Ah, Sherlock, I'm beginning to think that we're all just fish in the same tank."

* * *

 _AN: Thank you to everyone who's been reading, following and leaving comments. :)_


	4. It takes me all the way

_It takes me all the way_

Sunday morning he sits in the bath nursing a slight hang-over. For an addict, he's never acquired the taste for alcohol. It doesn't take much for him and last night he nearly finished the bottle of Mycroft's finest.

He surprisingly doesn't feel like having a cigarette. Instead, he's having a mug of tea, balancing it on his knees. Mrs. Hudson is out visiting a friend and he'd nipped down earlier to get milk and some biscuits from her kitchen.

One hour later, both bath and tea gone cold, he gets out and takes a shower – he needs the extra wake-up. He brushes his teeth, shaves carefully and splashes on a bit of cologne. He gets dressed and then texts Molly.

:::

He can see she's made an effort too. She's in loungewear but he notices the little things. She's put a bra on, has brushed her hair, had applied a little lipgloss and a pinch to the cheeks.

"Tea?" She's always offering him something, isn't she?

"Uh…yes. I mean, no!" he nervously stammers. His can feel his heartbeat speed up.

Her eyebrows rise.

He points at her new couch. "Sit down."

She scowls at him. He's perfectly aware that he's being rude, but he needs to say what he's come to say without losing his nerve. And any delay is dangerous.

"Please."

She huffs but sits down.

"What's going on?" she asks, looking up at him, pacing in front of her.

He stops, takes a deep breath and looks at her. "I've come to apologise."

"What for?"

He sighs. "Everything."

Her shoulders hunch slightly, defensive, wary. "What is everything?"

He hears the anger, the sadness, the tiredness in that question. Why is it so easy for him to hurt the people he loves?

He'd made notes earlier, bullet points for discussion. The words are now all jumbled up in that big old brain of his. For such a remarkable mind it's pretty useless sometimes.

"I was scared and I ran away," he blurts out.

She inhales quickly, holds her breath. Exhales. And then she just goes kind of still. The clock ticks in her kitchen, a car drives by outside, he can hear the faint hum of construction work down the road.

"I was scared too."

"Why didn't you tell me?" His voice is harsh and whiny.

Her eyes are piercing, accusatory. "Because on the day I wanted to, you broke up with me."

A slap would have been kinder. He had read her text, had come to a conclusion.

"I thought you were going to leave me." Self-preservation. Idiot, idiot.

She looks down at her hands. "I'd thought about it."

He hadn't been imagining things, he'd noticed her unhappiness. "But you wanted to stay?"

She shrugs her shoulder. "I wanted us to talk. I wasn't happy, yes," another shrug, "I thought we could talk. "

"And I made a decision." Colossal idiot.

"Yes."

"Why didn't you stay? Fight me?" He remembers that she called herself a coward too.

She looks out the window. Her cat comes sauntering into the living room, greeting Sherlock with a friendly meow and an affectionate rub around his legs. He then jumps on Molly's lap and immediately begins to purr while she scratches behind his ears.

"Because I had no reason to think that you would change your mind."

He feels slightly dizzy. "What if I have?"

"Don't do this, Sherlock, please."

"What if I have?"

"Please don't do this."

"Molly, look at me."

He sits down next to her, tries to take her hands, but she scoots away from him, holds them close to her chest, like she's guarding her heart. He's been guarding his for so long, it's second nature to him. He could leave now, try and delete everything that they've been together, everything they've said so far. But he knows he can't – and he has tried to forget. He can't delete anything about Molly Hooper. And, more importantly, he does not want to.

She bites her lip and he can see the conflict behind her eyes. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

"I want you."

"And what does that mean?"

"Everything."

It's her turn to stand, to pace. Toby meows balefully and climbs onto Sherlock's lap. He'd missed the cat, too.

"I don't think we can go back to the way it was," she says after a long moment.

"I know."

"Do you?"

Of course he does. He may be an idiot when it comes to love, but he's not that hopeless. At least he hopes he isn't. He hopes Molly doesn't think he isn't.

"Tell me what you wanted to say to me that day." Sherlock can hear his blood rushing in his ears.

She blinks and turns to look at him.

"I knew that it wouldn't be easy. Relationships never are, they're always work. With your history, I knew that some things were going to be…difficult. I was so afraid to put pressure on you, didn't want you to feel like I wanted you to change. I wanted us to grow together. But…it felt like I was holding back and I came to resent that. I know part of it's my fault, my insecurities. But I never thought that we couldn't work it out. Until you-"

"Until I ended it."

"Yes. I was devastated."

All hearts break.

"I never stopped feeling things for you."

"Sherlock-"

He moves to stand up but she takes a step backwards, so he remains sitting on the couch. He looks at his hands.

"What I did…it was selfish. I pretended I was being noble and sparing you future pain. I really was trying to spare myself future pain." He looks up at her, "I…I never learned to cope with my emotions. It's always been easier to ignore them. When you and I…there were just too many feelings. I panicked. It's not an excuse, I know. But I think…I think I can learn, Molly. I want to learn with you."

"Do you?"

He nods, willing her to see how earnest he was. "You said that you wanted us to grow together. I want us to grow together. I want us to grow old together."

Tears are forming in her eyes, she's shaking her head. "Sherlock…what you're asking, it's too much…we can't-"

"We can't go back. But we can move forward. Together. I want us to be together, Molly. I want to be with you."

He stands up, goes to hold her. He needs to hold her. She leans into him, her head tucked under his chin. He has missed this so much.

"I'm afraid," she murmurs, the vibration of her words on his neck.

"Me too."

Touch is such a simple thing. Just electrons being moved around. But what it does, how touching Molly Hooper makes him feel like he's come home, there's magic in that.

She steps out of their embrace, overcome by a sudden shyness. "Can I think about it?"

"Of course."

:::

It doesn't help that there is conflicting advice on what he's supposed to do while he waits for her to make up her mind.

"Give her space." Don't hover, don't pester her, don't pressure her.

"Let her know that you're earnest, that you care." Let her know you're thinking of her.

John, as always, seems to be unaware of what's going on. Mary, on the other hand, she just knows. What an asset they lost when she decided to retire from her former line of work.

"What if she decides that she doesn't want to-"

"Then you move on."

"That simple?"

"No. It's never simple."

:::

 _"What is this?"_

 _"Hm?"_

 _"I mean, is this just sex or…"_

 _"This is or."_

 _"Sherlock!"_

 _"Go back to sleep, Molly."_

 _He doesn't sleep for the rest of the night._

:::

He gets to the point where he trails Lestrade even on simple cases. It's Sally who tells him politely, firmly, that he's underfoot. She assures him that they'll be in touch if they need his help. Sally's a really good police officer, she won't call unless she's at her wits end.

He goes to pester John at the clinic. It's one of his favourite games when he's truly bored. He sits in the waiting room and tries to deduce what everyone is in for. And what they're up to in their private life. Out loud. It really is a wonder that John doesn't punch him more often.

He plays his violin until his fingers ache, the muscles in his arms and shoulder burn. It's long after Mrs. Hudson has complained several times about the noise in the middle of the night.

He goes to see a musical with his parents. Mycroft, somehow 'regressing' in his recuperation, is excused from going. But Mummy insists on staying over for a few days to nurse her Myke.

He sits in his bath and tries not to smoke. He succeeds. Almost. It doesn't count when he just takes one drag and flicks it into the loo, right?

He goes to Barts, finds experiments to occupy himself with. Tries not to be a burden to Molly, busy, always busy, with her work. Offers his help when he can. Tries to find a balance between showing he cares and not making her feel like she needs to make a decision. Even though he really wants her to come to a decision.

Waiting is agony.

And then he receives her text.


	5. I want you to stay

_I want you to stay_

It's like they're back at the scene of the crime, reenacting the events of that day.

She's sat in 'John's' chair, clearly nervous. He's sat in his, emotions safely behind the blank mask of his face, hands steepled under his chin. It's a defence mechanism and it's hard to break the habit of a lifetime.

"Steve from Radiology asked me out to dinner."

He knows this Steve – thirty-six, never been married, cat owner, has asked Molly out for coffee several times.

"We've had coffee a few times."

Has been successful in asking her out for coffee.

"He has a ragdoll cat. Huge!"

"He's…nice." Safe, not a sociopath.

"Not a sociopath, then?" Finally, her familiar teasing tone. It's been so long.

"You're having dinner with Steve?"

"I thought about it."

His stomach feels weird, hollow. "…but?"

She sighs. "There's this man. Clever, frustrating, brilliant man, an ex of mine. When he broke up with me I was-"

What was the word she used? "Devastated?"

"Yes. I have never been as in love as I had been with him. Which is silly, you know? He's just a man. Just a man."

"…so you're over him?" He can't move. He can't breathe.

"Oh Sherlock, I wouldn't be here if I was."

He moves, kneels in front of her, takes her hands. He needs to hold her. He needs to make sure she won't go. "I love you."

"I love you, too. But it's not enough."

Her hands slide out of his to cup his cheeks. He turns his head to give one palm a gentle kiss.

"Tell me. Tell me what you need," he murmurs, implores.

She releases his face and her hands come to rest on her heart again. Hearts are so fragile, aren't they?

He notices her hands are trembling. "I need to feel like I can talk to you about things. I need you to talk to me about things. I need us to have proper arguments when we're unhappy. I need to know that we can work through them together. I need you to know that I'll be there for you, whenever you need me. I need you to be there for me whenever I need you. I need you to know that you are loved, no matter what. And I need you to love me, no matter what."

She's crying now and he gathers her in his arms. The ache of love and protectiveness he feels for this woman flares in his chest, but it's is not the kind of hurt that renders one paralyzed. It is the kind of hurt that makes one stronger, fiercer, more alive. She makes him more alive.

"I love you," he whispers into her ear. "I love you."

He holds her long after she's stopped crying. The weight of her head on his shoulder is such a sweet burden. He keeps murmuring that he loves her. He will never stop.

"I love you, too," she says when she finally lifts her head and looks at him. Nose red, eyes slightly puffy, hair mussed, she is so very beautiful to him.

He kisses her on the lips, tentative, exploratory, unsure if it's asking too much right now. Although familiar, it's all so new, a new beginning. He receives his answer when she increases the pressure. It's a good start, he thinks.

"Stay," he says, when they finally break apart, both breathing heavily. "Please."

She smiles. "Okay."

.

.

* * *

 _AN: And that's it for now. Let's hope these crazy kids take this second chance and grow old together ;)_

 _Thank you to everyone who's been reading, following and a special thank you to the ones who've left reviews :) I'm always very touched when people take the time to look at my silly stories 3_


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